Al Hadith Hilton
by Curiously Strong
Summary: If Romeo and Juliet were starcrossed, Chris Silas and Jamila AlShahrani have a whole damn galaxy rooting against them. If it doesn’t work out death by stoning in the town square is always a strong possibility. Yours, now with a choice of 2 endings.
1. Al Hadith

Disclaimer wise, I don't know a word of Arabic let alone its grammar and I of course have no ownership interest in anything or anyone save for the word arrangement herein. Al-Hadith is made up. You'llnotice Doublewide and Mrs. B are absent for the duration and that's because I had too much trouble making up a feasible role for them and I'm lazy and this all about Sgt. Hotness anyway.Below is a mini glossary of terms used.

**_Abaya_**: an over-garment worn by some Muslim women.

**_Keffiyeh_**: a traditional Muslim headdress for men often held in place by a rope circlet called **_egal_**.

**_Maghrib_**: the 4th of 5 daily prayers recited by practicing Muslims in the afternoon.

**_Niqab_**: a veil which covers the face, worn by some Muslim women.

**_Salat_**: refers to the five daily ritual prayers (Fajr, Duhr, Asr, Maghrib, and Isha'a) that Muslims offer to Allah.

* * *

With only a quarter of the size of Baghdad, Al-Hadith was a double dog dare to any mujahedeen worth his salt. On the maps it seemed to be close enough to Mosül to reach it by car in a day or two but in reality, the tricky topography of northern Iraq meant that the threat posed by insurgents was erratic in rate of recurrence and utterly uninspired in methodology. In the end, remoteness had been a saving grace: it had allowed the city to remain more or less intact in the wake of occupation.

On the roads, car traffic was predominantly made up of outdated vehicles with a dash of polished, high end imports belonging to the scarce upper class and some military presence in between curfews. The better stretches of road were dotted with vendors, garden variety storefronts and torched billboards advertising fast foods, cigarettes and a variety of fruit juices of questionable origin.

It had been a long day for the five soldiers inside a hummer rolling back within city limits. Twelve hours of roadblock duty had been tedious and fruitless and the fact that the day was not yet over proved even more inhibiting. It was quiet inside the car sitting five and everyone reeked of each other's sweat. Pvt. Williams; slumped in the backseat sat up.

"Hey check that out," he said elbowing Pfc. Nassiri to his left. "Look at that plane. Look it, look it's going around in circles." Nassiri who'd been startled awake from an open-eyed nap managed only an unintelligible grunt.

"It's probably just waiting for a runway man. You act like this is the first plane you ever saw. Did they ship you out in a special boat?" Pvt. King said from his end of the backseat where he had been trying to shake sand out of his helmet without taking it off.

"No look man it's going down too. Look at that. First it was up by that little Arabic doodle in the water tower and now it's all the way down to the dude's face."

"It's just a matter of perspective," Pvt. Dumphy piped in looking over the glare of his glasses at the airport on the right. His hands left the wheel for a second as he pointed out the window for emphasis.

"Shut up all of you," SSgt. Silas interrupted in a tone a decibel under a scream. He followed the plane with his gaze for a minute until the air shook the flapping nylon windows. In a softer voice he added, "Smoke was right Dim. It lands in circles to avoid RPG fire."

His attention returned to the window and the bright yellow courier plane beyond it. Red lettering in bold type on the side of the fuselage read DHL. Traffic thickened slightly as the hummer began to overtake smaller, lesser cars. SSgt. Silas looked at his watch and then at the sun to confirm. The head of the fake, Baghdad Rolex affixed to cheap Velcro on his wrist was set to New York time. **_Maghrib salat_** was creeping up. With less than thirty minutes before the call for prayer, Pvt. Dumphy picked up the sergeant's subtle time check and put his foot down on the accelerator.

"Where is it we are going again Sergeant?"

"Well Dim since your curiosity bears an answer for a change, we volunteered to make up Brigadier General Mustafa Suqur Al-Sharani's personal security detail until a local arrangement can be made. He's Al-Hadith's brand new chief of police and Mustafa's five body guards got themselves blown up in Baghdad last week so he needs a stand-in."

"Something's rotten in the state of Denmark and it smells like Lt. Underpants is behind it," he said shaking his head. He had itched to correct SSgt. Silas' pronunciation but self preservation had kicked in on time.

"If he's such a high-roller why does he need so much help finding his own damn staff?" Nassiri asked.

"He didn't. He has already hired his wife's brother but intelligence wants to make sure he's kosher before Mustafa goes up in flames too. Elections are expensive and he won by a landslide."

It was Pvt. King who first saw the house they were looking for. The only identifying numbers on a tall whitewashed wall were painted to the right of an imposing iron gate, in crude strokes painted with tar. An eleven year old boy in modern western clothing smiled a gaping smile of perfect white teeth and motioned the car forward as he opened the gate to the driveway. Driving over the sidewalks to fit, Dumphy moved forth. Behind them a black Mercedes Benz blocked the alleyway and honked three times. Four pairs of hands moved four M4s to ready positions on pure instinct but nothing changed. The boy waved again and pointed a spot beneath an improvised carport.

The imposing black Benz, no older than the war itself roared down the short driveway and into an open garage opposite the hummer. Through the rearview mirrors, Silas, Dumphy, Nassiri, Williams and King watched enraptured while two heavily veiled women in extra conservative closed **_abayas_** with matching **_niqabs_** scurried out of the car and were herded into the house through a side door by the uniformed driver who had delivered them. The boy cleared his throat to regain their attention.

"Assalamu'alaikum," he said directing his attention to Tariq.

"Wa alaikum assalam," he answered.

"Peace be upon you," the boy repeated in accented but fluent English to SSgt. Silas. Met with silence he added, "you are supposed to say 'and on you be peace'. That's what I said to him and then what he told me."

"Peace be upon you," Silas said raising an eyebrow. Missing Tariq's warning the boy shook his head.

"_I_ say that. You say the other one. It's a rule."

"We are looking for General Mustafa Suqur Al-Shahrani. Is he your dad?" Pvt. Dumphy cut in.

"I am Nadim. General Al-Shahrani is waiting inside." The second leg of his introduction was spoken on the move, leading them through a Moorish wooden door whose shape resembled a vintage keyhole. "Take off your shoes to come in please or I have to pay a fine from my wages."

The expression on Nadim's face was so well executed that each of the five men sat on the wooden benches alongside a larger, second door and slipped their feet into the proffered rubber flip flops that the boy laid out at their feet. Imposing from the ankles up, they followed Nadim down a tiled hallway which opened into a central courtyard of pavered stone.

"Wait for him here," the boy said with too much authority for his eleven years. Picking up his pace he cut around a three tiered fountain and disappeared into the house. "Don't look at his wives," the childish voice warned trailing off.

"Did he say wives?" Williams whispered. Behind him a curtain fluttered.

"Shut up Smoke," four voices responded in unison.

Pvt. Dumphy tuned his ear on the background noise in the house. Satisfied no one was coming he walked closer to the fountain and fingered the middle tier's rough texture. It looked hand carved and seamless and it was, having been commissioned a hundred years earlier from one very large block of natural stone. He walked around the octagonal base stealing furtive glances of the rooms as he moved. The living and dining rooms faced each other on opposite sides of the entrance hall and each room seemed to be accessible through the main courtyard. Long colorful curtains made of a rich gold fabric he did not recognize swirled with the afternoon breeze allowing short glimpses of what appeared to be a sitting room. He focused his attention back on the fountain as the tapping of a cane got progressively louder.

"Welcome to my humble residence," a booming male voice said in perfect English with a slight London accent and not a hint of irony in the inflection of 'humble.' "I hope Nadim has made you feel welcome," he added shaking hands five times from left to right. Affirmative nods and straight faces accompanied each handshake. To the far right, Nadim sighed relieved.

"If you show us where you want us to bunk down for the night we'll secure the house and get out of your way General." SSgt. Silas said sporting his trademark poker face.

"Oh no no no don't call me General. I am only Mustafa in my home, I am but Allah's devoted servant. Follow me please."

Allah's devoted servant negotiated the space between the courtyard and the living room with surprising agility for a man both his age and with his pronounced limp. He parted the curtain to reveal the lavish room beyond and pointed to two 'l' shaped sofas arranged around a Persian rug in the middle. Lined in dark, opaque silk the opulence of the sofas and the room itself was matched and perhaps even eclipsed by Mustafa's himself. His business suit was expertly tailored by one of those rare, gifted men able to disguise a gut until it gave the appearance of executive power. Even the red and white_ **keffiyeh**_ on his head seemed regal though their cut was standard. Short for a man, Mustafa had other means of commanding respect. He ran a hand through his thick graying mustache and took in his new personal security entourage.

"This house is built like a bunker Sgt. Silas. I fear my American friends overreacted in sending so many of you to help me today. There are motion sensors on the roof to deter anyone who'd want to climb in the hard way and of course only the one entrance which is electronically monitored at all times. All the exterior windows are high and narrow. We even have a state of the art sprinkler system," he said looking up. "Why I agreed to such nonsense I forget now, our kitchen is detached from the main house!"

"We'll still need to walk through sir," Silas replied.

"I understand. I'll give you the tour myself so you can meet my wives and the staff. They'll be preparing for **_maghrib_** very soon, as will I so we should get started." Mustafa leaned on his cane to stand up.

"Let us begin," he said clapping his hands. "You will notice all the rooms are accessible through one another although some of them only to myself sure enough."

They looked at the den off the living room first. Luxury was the constant through the General's office as well as the dining space where a table was already set for six. Mustafa led the way up the stairs and pointed into the bedrooms of each of his wives without setting foot inside himself. There were no windows anywhere on the second story and short of climbing on the roof, the entire floor could be secured from the stairs.

"This is more or less unofficially the women's wing if you will. It is very secure as you saw for yourselves," Mustafa prattled to no one in particular. "I'd appreciate it if your men stay on the first floor from here on in sergeant. They are easily upset, my darlings, by strange faces and who needs to upset a wife let alone four right?"

The unsettling cackle that followed his statement sounded nervous and flat. Again, they negotiated the stairs quickly and this time cut across a corner of the courtyard in tandem to reach one of the rooms they had skipped on the first walk-through. It was the only space where it was clear people were gathered, not by the noise they made which was nonexistent but by the shadows their presence reflected on the closed curtained doors.

"I'll introduce you to the women show you to your quarters for the night," Mustafa muttered jiggling the doorknob in his hand until it clicked and the door gave way.

He spoke to the women in Arabic, formal greetings, and motioned for the five men outside to come in when every head was covered and the shuffling in the room ceased. SSgt. Silas stepped inside first with Pfc. Nassiri bringing up the rear. Tapping each woman in her shoulder as he called their names Mustafa moved down the line.

"First is Raja and Zukia then of course Fatima and at last Jamila. Highest bride price in all Al-Basrah. Ever," Mustafa added with an unidentifiable lilt to his voice.

None of the women so much as stirred. They, in fact, stood still as statues draped in plain, black **_abayas_** keeping their heads tilted towards the floor and eyes averted even as Mustafa tapped each of their shoulders. It was the slight twitch of her right hand as the good general gloated that made Jamila stand out from the other four black blurs in the room and SSgt. Silas had been the only one close enough to notice. As Mustafa moved away dragging his cane on the carpeted hardwood floor, Jamila, glanced up. The look of daring defiance in her face was fleeting and so quick Chris Silas would later, staring at the ceiling fan unable to sleep, remember only her haunting green eyes.

* * *

That's part one then, slightly edited on this day mostly to fix a prayer time boo boo. 


	2. Jamila

Disclaimer: I still don't know any Arabic and I still have no ownership interest in anything or anyone to my sad, sad detriment. Mine is only the word arrangement. Here's two new terms for the ol' glossary. Please read. Please. Don't make me beg now.

**_Keffiyeh_**: a traditional Muslim headdress for men often held in place by a rope circlet called **_egal_**.

**_Thobe_**: ankle-length garment with long sleeves normally made of cotton and resembling a long robe. The name is often used intechangeably with **_dishdasha_**.

* * *

"We are not getting relieved tomorrow morning." Silas said stepping down into the guest bedroom where the fire squad would spend the night. He had skipped the guided tour to radio for orders before all the light was gone.

Helmet now in hand, his double take was poetic. Though not quite palatial, the space was large enough to fit four standard twin beds and a cot on the far wall where a small sofa had been moved to fit the extra guest. A walnut cabinet next to the door housed a bank of monitors fed by the cameras they'd seen outside and though numbers three and seven guarding the only stairwell and the women's drawing room window on the first floor were now playing a constant program of silent static, the remaining screens were trained on every point of access to the house.

The beds were made with a white, down comforter and a feather pillow dressed to match the blue paint on the wall. Pvt. Dumphy was busy going through a set of traditional Muslim clothes that had been laid out for each man, inspecting the fabric and stitching as if quality control was his life. He unfurled two simple white **_thobes_** and the long cotton underwear worn under each. He shook open the traditional headdress provided but unlike Mustafa's, styled his **_keffiyeh_** like a woman's head cover.

"I feel pretty, oh so pretty, I feel pretty and witty and bright," he sang in a smooth falsetto dancing in place for an unreceptive audience.

Behind him, Williams and King, unaware of the musical program, faced off for the right to the last bed. Sgt. Silas began peeling off his stiff, dirty uniform growing more and more amused by Williams' frustration with Rock Paper Scissors. He tossed them a quarter and a second later Williams headed into the bathroom the victor muttering under his breath as he hit the light switch.

"Hot damn," he exclaimed looking at the room in front of him. Four heads crowded the doorframe to get a glimpse of the bathroom and appreciative wolf-whistles followed. They were staring at a marble tub deep enough to free float in it and matching sinks with gold fixtures on the opposite wall. The room had intricate waist high mosaic tile-work with the top half painted in a rich green hue. The toilet was furthest from the door through an arched entrance on the right.

"Should we vote who goes first?" Pfc. Nassiri asked breaking the awed silence.

"No way Tinkerbell, finders keepers," Williams answered.

"Really what are you gonna do Smoke put the toilet in your pocket?"

"Dim, there's no need to get defensive with your buddy here when this matter can be resolved so swiftly," Sgt. Silas said leading the group away from the door. "You are going first, no doubt about it, you smell the worst."

"Hey I smell too," Williams said stretching out his arms to reveal sweat stained armpits that stretched down mid torso. Before anyone could react, Sgt. Silas ducked under his left arm and closed the bathroom door from the inside.

"Sucker," Dumphy said laughing as Williams banged on the door desolately, having expected to be on the other side.

SSgt. Silas stood under a jet of water hot enough to make Ramen noodles until a month of compensating for Lt. Hunter's ineptitude seemed small enough to bear a day longer. His reaction to Mustafa had been visceral dislike. The feeling had been absolute with Hunter and not so pronounced when he shook Mustafa's hand but then the latter, however arrogant was not in a position to affect his personal safety at the drop of a very moronic hat. He shuddered at the thought of Mustafa and Hunter side by side in the same room and turned off the faucet. The last of the water drained noisily and he dried off quickly. Wrapped in his towel, Chris hit the light and opened the door. Behind it, Maurice Williams was ready with a towel and a change of clothes draped over his arm.

With not much of a choice, SSgt. Silas slipped into the underwear on his bed and discarded his towel folded into four. It was long and roomy and though he much preferred his traditional Fruit of the Loom boxers from the Post Exchange, he was never above clothing that could not stand on its own.

"Did you get an E.T.A. on that relief sergeant?" Avery asked looking up from a notepad in front of him.

"1800 hours tomorrow is the best they can do," he said omitting the fact that six p.m. was Lt. Hunter's personal best and he had little incentive to come through. Outside, someone rapped on the door twice. SSgt. Silas looked up as Nadim came in without waiting for a reply. He smelled like cinnamon and tea and whatever food was served behind him on a dumbwaiter stacked with covered plates.

"Sergeant, I am to take the dirty clothes for the washing woman," he said in a single breath, saluting with the wrong hand.

"I think we can manage if you show me where to find the washing machine,"

"We only have a washing woman," he mumbled as if ashamed of the archaic methods he had not thought to question before.

"When will they be ready?" Tariq asked unbuttoning his shirt.

"Tomorrow morning," Nadim answered smugly. "General Al-Shahrani is a very big client." Beaming, he counted out the six canvas bags he had secured under and arm and left them on the nearest bed. "Just put all your things in those and be sure to tie them properly because we have lots of important laundry."

"Where should we leave these?" SSgt. Silas asked.

"On the steps outside the door of course. You should not go around the house without me so that I can warn the women and translate them for you," he said glancing briefly at Tariq. "I am being paid extra to do this," he added beaming with pride. He opened the door to leave but seeing the trays added. "Now I serve you dinner."

Seeing the boy intended to deliver each plate individually, Pvt. Williams lifted the entire cart from the top step and placed it inside the room.

"I'll pick those up later," Nadim said hastily and seeing his chore shortened, ran.

"Come to daddy McFalafel," Williams said sniffing the air. Four pairs of eyes looked at him sit down on Dumphy's and bed fill his cup with what turned out to be anise tea from a thermos on the tray. He dug into the food with gusto. "What? Like none of you ever tapped some ethnic ass?"

"When did _you_?" Tariq asked.

"Compton," Williams said a bite later. "It's very culturally diverse."

SSgt. Silas uncovered the second tray. Like in Williams' plate, the falafel had been deep fried in slightly larger than bite sized balls and served on a bed of diced vegetables and halved loaves of pita bread. He picked up the sandwich gingerly and smelled the concoction. It certainly looked better than what he'd seen street vendors sell as the same thing. He bit into the bread and his mouth filled with the tangy sesame seed sauce holding the vegetables together. One by one, Dumphy, King and Nassiri joined the chorus of approving noises that emptied every plate.

Nadim never came back for the tray. A clock somewhere in the house chimed twelve times for midnight. SSgt. Silas and Pfc. Nassiri were sitting in the front hall looking like their own enemies in **_thobes _**and M4s, their eyes already used to the relative darkness that had descended on the first floor. In their beds, King, Dumphy and Williams were enjoying the unexpected night of air conditioned sleep.

"I have a question," SSgt. Silas said nearly whispering.

"About?" Tariq asked leaning his head

"Women, well you know these women not American women,"

"They are not that different."

"No one's paying anybody money for a wife in Detroit are they?"

"A bride price is like compensation to the family because she won't be bringing in any wages anymore. Most men who take more than one wife end up paying it, to prove to the family they can cover the extra expense. Dowries were more popular and the _parents_ paid that to the… sergeant?" Tariq cut his speech short. Beside him, SSgt. Silas had sat up.

"Is that Mustafa? What's he saying?" He asked walking to the end of the hall and motioning for Tariq to follow. Tariq closed his eyes to concentrate.

"Allaahumma jannibnaa al-shaytaan…" he repeated the phrase to himself once more and laughed uncomfortably. "Um, it's a prayer sergeant."

"Now?" SSgt. Silas wondered looking at his watch.

"It's more like he's asking for a blessing. He's supposed to ask Allah to keep the devil away from their children before they have sex."

"How romantic," SSgt. Silas muttered.

The order of the noises was unclear but a shriek and a thud made Silas and Nassiri look up at the source. Someone slammed a door upstairs and beside them, a picture frame shook. Tariq was first on the second floor.

"General Al-Shahrani?" He called out. "Are you okay general?" A shadow crossed from one side of the lit room to the other. "General this is private first class Tariq Nassiri, I am going to count to three and then I'm coming in." The shadow grew larger approaching the curtained French door and before Tariq could start counting, Jamila Al-Shahrani, wrapped in a silk kimono and clearly naked underneath it, threw open the double doors that led into her room.

She looked at the men in their **_thobes_** with her eyebrows frozen in arches and stepped back to point at Mustafa with a bare foot. She walked to the opposite side of the room in a swirl of crimson silk and sat on a low, upholstered chaise. Mustafa's arms were splayed at different angles, caught in the sleeves of a pajama top that failed to cover his protruding belly button crowning an equally bloated, hairy stomach. One of his legs was stuck underneath him and the other, a scarred, pale stump, still rested on the platform that lifted a king sized bed off the floor at least a foot.

"Is he okay?" SSgt. Silas asked. "Tariq ask her in Arabic."

"I speak English asshole."

"Was it a seizure? Does that happen often?" SSgt. Silas asked, ignoring the expletive.

"Only when I put rohypnol in food," Jamila said in a thick accent looking at Silas through the vanity mirror in front of her. She tied her waist-long hair into a knot and pulled the embroidered top of a prayer outfit over her head. Tariq knelt next to Mustafa and measured his pulse.

"You shouldn't do that," the latter reproached.

"Okay," she said dismissively.

"I'm not kidding, he could have an adverse reaction and it could be too late before you notice."

"Maybe I send to you next time he want to grope in darkness," she said fiercely through clenched teeth in a tone that would have made a dog whimper.

Tariq stood up suddenly aware of what had been happening in the room. His cheeks reddened, mortified, as if Mustafa had been caught in leather chaps. He saw her bravado for the fear that it was and tried to relax his face.

"Help to carry him?" Jamila ventured noticing the subtle change. "To bed?"

Jamila gathered Mustafa's hands. SSgt. Silas hooked the unconscious man at the armpits and motioned for Tariq to grab the legs. They lifted him with quiet grunts as Jamila held his bulging mid-side. She arranged him on the pillows almost lovingly then held the bedroom door open. Mustafa stirred in bed and Jamila mouthed a silent 'thank you' before closing the door.

* * *

And thus concludes the second chapter. I'll owe you the ticker tape parade.


	3. Dumb Romeo

My prior disclaimer is still in effect except I don't feel like typing it here because my nail is broken and the cat is hungry and it's all getting a bit redundant.

**_Abaya_**: an over-garment worn by some Muslim women.

**_Dhuhr_**: the 2nd of 5 daily prayers recited by practicing Muslims at true noon.

**_Fajr_**: the 1st of 5 daily prayers recited from dawn to sunrise by practicing Muslims.

**_Keffiyeh_**: a traditional Muslim headdress for men often held in place by a rope circlet called **_egal_**.

**_Khussa_**: beaded, flat shoe most commonly associated with India but used throughout the Middle East as well.

**_Ramadan_**: the ninth month of the Islamic calendar and the holiest month in Islam.

**_Thobe_**: ankle-length garment with long sleeves normally made of cotton and resembling a long robe. The name is often used intechangeably with **_dishdasha_**.

* * *

SSgt. Silas had been up since the crack of dawn. He had spied on the women of the house setting up for **_fajr _**in the central courtyard and seen Jamila running down the stairs adjusting the prayer outfit she'd styled the night before. He counted eleven women and Nadim kneeling toward Mecca at a time when most of the world, some of them even Muslim, were busy with their snooze buttons. Mustafa had waltzed in soon after prayers clean shaven and fresh, unaware of his unconscious performance.

"Two of you will stay behind today," he ordered in way of a greeting looking down on the guest room.

SSgt. Silas, reclined in bed, looked up from a thick leaflet in his hand and put it aside at the sound of Mustafa's voice. He'd found the book wedged between two chairs in the mess hall a week earlier and used it to replace the phrase book he consulted when he wanted those around him to think his attention elsewhere. Unlike before, he really _had_ been engrossed in the UCLA study on the fetal sheep brain, oddly soothed by the obtuse technical language and the appended graphs.

"Like I said," Mustafa repeated, "my car only fits three of you plus the driver so two will stay to make sure the house is safe too."

"What's your day like today General?"

"Sergeant, it's my first day of office so I am not sure what to expect," the man said with false joviality. "A bit odd to turn a new leaf on a Wednesday don't you think?" he asked as if trying to recruit a bit player for his script. "The building is beings swept for explosives as we speak. I have no fear; Al-Hadith is very quiet. This is a figurehead position," he added when SSgt. Silas didn't bite.

Only three of the five uniforms had been returned cleaned and pressed in their canvas bags and Nassiri, Dumphy and King led the way to the walk-through breakfast outside the kitchen. As Mustafa's Mercedes idled in the driveway, all five men downed cups of a strong black tea and bit into gooey, date filled pastries that tasted fresh baked. A maid had bee spooning a steaming, meaty porridge into bread but it never materialized for them and with two hooves peeking out of a basket of trash by the door, no one had bothered to ask why.

Like a mother hen, albeit a bored one, SSgt. Silas watched from the door as the black Benz now to capacity with Mustafa, the driver and three U.S. Army privates made a right turn onto the street and disappeared for the day.

Williams and Silas watched the morning hub in the kitchen through a long screened window. A mountain of potatoes grew taller on a table inside and Nadim began his morning runs taking teapots in and out of the house and later carrying four separate breakfasts each tray more sumptuous than the last. The sun climbed in the cloudless sky until a makeshift dial on the floor, an aluminum pipe sawed off and filled with concrete, placed the time at a little past 8:00 a.m. Droplets of sweat began pooling around the black **_egal_** in SSgt. Silas' **_keffiyeh_**.

"Seems very safe out here don't you think sergeant?"

"We should check to make sure everything is in order inside," Silas answered.

"Wouldn't wanna neglect that," Williams said wiping his neck with a sleeve.

They hurried into the house and stood under an air conditioning vent fanning themselves until the sweat dried. A phone rang in the distance and Nadim ran into a darkened room where the night before Mustafa had shown them an office. When a minute later he retuned the headset to its cradle a woman's voice called to him from the kitchen. Neither man, now comfortably seated in the living room sofas under the artificial breeze of overhead fans, saw Jamila come down the stairs nor heard her walk in her soft-soled flat **_khussa_**.

"Nadim," she called out.

"He went that way," Williams said pointing toward the kitchen as he turned in the direction of the voice. Jamila smiled a tense, tight-lipped smile and lingered inches from the door. The crinkly fabric of her dark, purple **_abaya_** swished as she parted the curtains and walked into the living room, back straight and shoulders squared.

She stood before the large flower arrangement on the coffee table between Williams and Silas and pulled a long stemmed white rose from the rest. She pressed the bulbs in her hands and shook the loose petals into the center of the bunch. One by one, Jamila picked out each rose and beheaded the fresh flowers to the growing amusement of her viewers.

"Nadim," she called out again. The boy ran into the room.

"Yes madam," he said after half an Arabic greeting rolled off his tongue.

"Nadim look," she said pointing at the vase. "All dead; you go to market with Hafsa. Bring more." Jamila pressed a single red banknote into his hand. "Do not hurry. Bring only best flowers." She watched the boy run and peeked at the second floor as the curtains parted for him.

"Good morning," she said with an impish smile on her face.

"Good morning," Silas echoed straight-faced.

"I feel sorry I call you ass," she said. Pvt. Williams raised an eyebrow and smiled to himself.

"Sergeant, I think I'm going to go keep an eye on the cameras," he said picking up his weapon from the sofa cushion.

"Should you be here alone Mrs. Al-Shahrani?" Silas asked when Williams' footsteps were no longer audible. Jamila kicked off her shoes and lined them on the edge of the rug in front of her. She took the seat Maurice had vacated and bent her legs close to her chest. Her purple **_abaya_** fit like a tent.

"I am twenty," she said crossly. SSgt. Silas sat up and adjusted the stiff neck of his **_thobe_** by unbuttoning the collar. His discomfort had more to do with the lack of body armor than the starched lapels but it didn't fit underneath and proved cumbersome otherwise.

"Don't go," she pled with a note of desperation in her voice when he stood. "You are most exciting thing in two years. I go mad knitting upstairs. Even _this_ is prison when you have to stay in every day," she added twisting a ring in her hand. The light caught the diamond and reflected it on the vase making Chris blink.

"Williams needs to see that," he said pointing in the direction of the glare.

"It is called the Lesotho," Jamila said looking at the ring as if it had appeared on her finger by magic. "It was bigger; 600 carats. They cut in three to make flawless stone." She turned the ring until only the platinum band faced the outside. In her small hand, the 71.73 carat diamond looked grotesque.

Silas stood in the middle of the room plagued by hesitation that was never there and questions he never would have normally asked. As if switching gears, Jamila stretched to reach behind the sofa and retrieved a laundry bag.

"Yours."

"My uniform!" He took out the clothes and smelled the shirt. "How come you had this?"

"Are you farmer?" She asked ignoring his question.

"A farmer?"

"You read about sheep," she shrugged.

"How do you know that?"

"I think maybe you stay behind without uniform," Jamila interjected. "I take _second_ uniform so driver goes with Mustafa. During breakfast, I see guest room and Nadim keep watch. I see sheep book and I think he is farmer, he has farm in America."

"Why…"

"You are like baby. Why, how, when, what? Everything is boring here! You are like satellite; like big uncensored American movie."

"You are crazy."

"I know," Jamila said smiling. Delight reached her green eyes shaking the sadness in them and Chris Silas found himself laughing along unable to stop looking at a face that on any other day would have been veiled.

"Will it be better for you now that Mustafa will be so important?" He asked sitting down again, wracking his brain for anything that might make her smile again.

"He has whole police to follow me around now. I can trick Yusef at market. He is lazy but not all the police. This is bore. Tell me something fun like what you do in America."

"I'm a soldier."

"You go home sometime right. You have first amendment and Marilyn Monroe."

"Yeah but she's dead."

"Ah, I should have kept tall one's uniform," Jamila teased.

"He would quote Shakespeare a lot." Jamila pinched her nose in mock disgust.

"No, no Shakespeare with dumb Romeo. I like Milton and Donne. Come!"

She got up as if on a spring and grabbed Silas's hand. They were in the den off the living room before he could hear anything over his own heartbeat and that long before Jamila noticed she was standing too close. Her bearing changed slightly, more reserved, as she used a long, wrought iron rod to push back a red curtain on the wall. The bookcase behind it was as tall as the room and divided into four locked hutches with Tiffany style stained glass doors. Jamila reached under the linen shawl around her head and retrieved a bobby pin she cut in half. It was clear from her skill as she jimmied the lock that reading was a favorite pastime.

"Look," she said in awe caressing the leather-bound spines of a very good selection of literary classics. "Nadim teach me English to read this," she said pulling a copy of _Paradise Lost _from the shelf.

"I had to read this in high school," Chris said taking the book.

"Did you like it?"

"Yes," he lied.

"I had to start with Quran. That was Mustafa's idea. He thought it make me more obedient but it was bad idea."

"It _didn't_ make you more obedient?"

"What you think?" She teased again taking the Milton from his hands and replacing it on the shelf. Jamila cursed under her breath as she strained to grab a book on the highest shelf. "I read _Count of Montecristo_ now. It is favorite more than _Divine Comedy_ but Hafsa puts on high shelf always." Chris looked up at the books and spotted the faded spine of the book Jamila wanted. He reached for the tome with ease but then at 6' he had a good six inches on her.

"Look, page 300," she said proudly opening the book. "It is faster because I don't need dictionary so much. With the other books I write words down for Nadim and then I wait until he looks in dictionary with tutor and tells me."

"You don't have your own dictionary?"

"Mustafa promise he will get for me after **_Ramadan_**. Maybe he will because chief of police job makes him happy. Insha'Allah."

"What's that?"

"What?" She asked scanning the words on the book in her hands.

"What you said."

"Insha'Allah? It means like God willing but Allah willing," she said without looking up.

"I'll be right back," SSgt. Silas said thinking about the phrase book he carried everywhere.

He walked to the guest room making a conscious effort not to run. His pocket dictionary had over 17,000 common words in both languages with phonetics mapped out to boot. Williams was dozing off on Dumbphy's bed and he noticed, at least facing the direction of the monitors on the wall. He took the pocket dictionary from where he kept it in his helmet and slipped it into the **_thobe_**'s front pocket then retraced his steps carefully. On the bed, Williams opened an eye and then the other. He smiled a smug Cheshire cat grin and sat on the bed again.

"Here." SSgt. Silas held out the soft paperback book in his right hand. "You can keep it." Jamila looked at the peeling orange cover and traced the bilingual title with her index finger. She smiled.

"Thank you," she said throwing her arms around his neck. He stood still, caught off guard like a mousing cat being petted. He heard his heartbeat buzz in his ears and felt her breath on his neck as she whispered thank yous over and over. He closed his eyes heady, unsure of whether there was enough oxygen in the room to sustain life. Jamila's scarf slipped on her head and Silas bent down until the unruly black curls brushed his face. He put his arms around her as she held him even closer and then just as impulsively as the embrace had started, Jamila pulled away. Her cheeks reddened.

"I'm sorry," she whispered rearranging her headscarf. "It's almost **_Dhuhr_**." The subtle, flowery scent of her perfume lingered in the room long after Jamila had gone.

* * *

In my best Porky Pig voice: That's all (for today) folks.


	4. Zina

See prior disclaimers for that bunch of things that need be here. Other than that, there are a couple more words for the ol' glossary including the meaning of the chapter yourself warned that there's adescription ofthe mating rituals of the Homo sapiens a few paragraphs down so it'd be wise to get mum if you are in junior high, although PG-13 has gotten kinda lax lately.

**_Abaya_**: an over-garment worn by some Muslim women.

**_Boughasha_**: cigar shaped pastries made of phyllo pastry with a walnut filling.

**_Dhuhr_**: the 2nd of 5 daily prayers recited by practicing Muslims at true noon.

**_Thobe_**: ankle-length garment with long sleeves normally made of cotton and resembling a long robe. The name is often used intechangeably with **_dishdasha_**.

**_Zina_**: sexual activity outside of marriage (covering the English words adultery and fornication)

* * *

Jamila took the stairs three steps at a time. She went into her room without looking at the sewing loft where she whittled away entire weeks. The curious eyes of three other wives followed her until she disappeared behind the curtained French doors. Her unenviable position as favorite wife came with three quarters of the south wing to herself and she sat in front of a mirrored dresser unable to think through the menagerie of thoughts spinning like a mad carnival ride in her head.

She hung her headscarf on the drawer hardware and opened it. The ring came off first and she put it away with a clunk. It would be Mustafa's until he died like every item of clothing hanging in the closet and every piece of jewelry in the floor safe. Jamila peeled back the wax paper jacket on a stick of cocoa butter and coated her lips with it. She returned the lip balm to the bare make-up case where it lived in sin with a stubby kohl pencil and snapped the lid harder than necessary. She hurled her wedding picture at the wall and watched the heavy glass frame shatter into hundreds of pieces. This happened often enough to prompt her maid to keep spares in a drawer in the kitchen.

With her eyes closed, Jamila tried to recall the way Chris' arms had felt around her but only the cold unsettling fear of being found out was there along with Mustafa's fat sausage fingers digging into her sides leaving angry bruises that lingered in ugly shades of purple and green before finally fading away.

-----------------------------------

**_Dhuhr_** came and went and Jamila prayed by force of habit. She picked at her food through the lunch hour when the maids and the wives all sat around the kitchen table for a no frills meal. Williams had asked for and taken two food trays and though they stole glances at one another for the brief minute he waited for the food, their gazes did not coincide. Soraya, a scullery maid, removed Jamila's plate and she left the table without regard to the protocol dictate that she get up last in deference to the higher status of the other wives. Raja's eyes were blind with cataracts and both Zukia and Fatima had long since learned to turn their heads the other way.

Jamila stood before the guestroom door with a plate in her hand.

"I bring **_boughasha_**," she said trying to smile though Williams was alone in the room. He took a handful of pastries from the plate.

"He's in the office," Williams said to the back of Jamila's scarf through a mouthful of pastry.

Zukia's maid passed her in the way and she paced the courtyard until the woman was out of view. Jamila sat in the empty first floor drawing room among baskets of unfinished needlework until the noise in the house had subsided to signal the end of lunch and start of the afternoon chores. This room; like every other in the house was a faithful copy of the Moroccan villa Mustafa had rented for their honeymoon four years earlier. He'd been a lowly captain then, buying prestige he had no other way to acquire and aping his betters' superior taste. Jamila heard Mustafa's chair squeak in the adjacent room and used the connecting door to enter his office. Silas was sitting in the dark with a slit of daylight from the narrow window cutting has left arm into thirds.

"I bring **_boughasha_**. I help make. Very good." She saw the outline of Chris' face then more detail as her eyes adapted to the semi-darkness.

"I'm sure it is," he said through clenched teeth.

"What is wrong?"

"That's a very good question Jamila." She moved as if to talk and thought better of it. "I was looking at some of these pictures," he added pointing at the frames facing him. "Here's Mustafa with the Prime Minister of Kuwait." Silas began turning the pictures on their faces. "This one is of Mustafa with the Crown Prince of Bahrain; and Mustafa at the inauguration of the Saudi embassy in Baghdad. I was there that day, for security. This is my favorite. See, in most of these it's just your hand or an unfocused face but this is of you and Mustafa in Ankara with the Prime Minister of Turkey. You are a very photogenic woman, but then I'm sure you know that."

"Thank you."

"The little orphan Annie acts is wearing thin don't you think?"

"Well, leapin' lizards!" Jamila exclaimed imitating the comic strip redhead, her thick accent replaced by subtler inflection.

The plate of **_boughasha_** went into the waste basket with balletic flair. She walked around the desk and chuckled disdainfully when Chris moved his chair away. She turned the key in the top desk drawer's lock and retrieved a silver hip flask engraved with her husband's name. She sat on the desk facing Silas and pulled the pin holding her scarf in place. Her long black hair tumbled down obscuring her face.

"There's something humanizing about prettiness and smarts in one package that makes your fellow soldiers uncomfortable. We had an eight man detail posted outside before the elections. They'd rather think of the locals as abstracts so I speak like a child and forego prepositions." She tipped the hip flask until the amber whisky in it flowed, careful not to put her lips to the neck. She swirled the liquor in her mouth and swallowed grimacing.

"Yes I'm whoring myself to a man who makes me want to vomit. My high bride price was the seed money for an export business that's feeding my entire family in Al-Basrah and the joke's on me because I never thought he'd actually live this long. Tell me, sergeant, Which one of me do you prefer?" They looked into each other's eyes for a minute that felt much longer and the hostility in her bearing softened. Jamila leaned into Chris' outstretched hand, aching to feel his fingers on her skin.

"There's only one." He whispered cradling the side of her face.

"I can't read English very well," she said holding his hand in hers.

"What…"

"Your dictionary is the best gift I've ever been given. I don't want you to think that was a lie." Jamila brought his hand to her lips and kissed the inside of Chris' wrist. "Come," she said.

-----------------------------------

Some part of her brain had been telling Jamila that she should have been downstairs in the women's drawing room, listening to Raja's daily recount of the same uninteresting gossip making the rounds through the Al-Hadith's upper crust but she'd been busy ignoring the message. A minute earlier, in Mustafa's office she'd quickly returned the pictures to their appropriate order and replaced the hip flask in the top drawer. It was a moment of sheer bravery or perhaps stupidity when they'd climbed the stairs to her room together in the dead of day.

She made the first move, a baby move, kicking off her shoes in opposite directions. She made the second move too and stepped closer until she could smell the mint tea in his breath. Used to breaking down every action into separate steps to detach herself from the day around her, Jamila stood an inch from Silas' face unable to move further. She had no point of reference to work with and no previous experience with the mixture of panic and need that had replaced the absolute repulsion Mustafa never failed to rally in her.

Chris hugged Jamila to still her trembling and only then noticed how much he'd needed her touch. The kiss that followed was timid at first, until her lips parted for his and she reveled in the novel feeling of _not_ wanting to throw up. Jamila unbuttoned the collar of his **_thobe_** with nimble fingers and the rest of the buttons gave way with a soft tug. The garment pooled around his feet and Chris stepped away in just the long underwear. His hands moved down Jamila's back over the stubborn fabric with no breaks to pull the dreadful tent away from her. He tried the front with similar results.

"This is easier," Jamila said pulling the **_abaya_** over her head and tossing aside the purple robe to reveal just underwear where a second layer of clothing should have been. "It's hot outside," she smiled shrugging. Chris recovered from the shock of so much skin after so much of it being covered as Jamila slithered out of her bra unceremoniously, yanking at the straps until it too was on the floor.

They backed onto the bed and tripped on the platform instead. He steadied Jamila with one hand and leaned on the mattress with the other. She fumbled with her hair and got most of it out of the way as Chris hovered above her on one elbow. Jamila bit her hand to quiet a low moan no one outside the room could have heard anyway.

She tensed under the light touch of his lips and fingers on her stomach and her legs simultaneously. She raised her hips as he pulled down her panties and she grabbed him by the long chain of the ID tags he'd flipped onto his back. Jamila opened her legs under his weight and looked enthralled at the tight, defined muscles of his arms and shoulders taking shorter, shallower breaths whenever his hands explored further.

He struggled with the drawstring in his pants and she wrapped her legs around his waist, pushed the pants down to his ankles and pulled him even closer. Chris kissed her slowly, enjoying the frustrated whimpers this produced.

"I need you. Please," she urged.

* * *

That's all for today then. I can't evade the housework any longer because we've actually run out of plates and someone whose name I won't mention doesn't know which button turns on the dishwasher after three years of the same model even though he can take apart an engine block just to see how it works.

Now somebody, someone, please tell me what you think!


	5. Hijab

Please refer to the first chapter for disclaimers and such. That said; here's that glossary!

**_Abaya_**: an over-garment worn by some Muslim women.

**_Adhan_**: call to prayer by a servant of the mosque called **_muezzin_**.

**_Asr_**: the 3rd of 5 daily prayers recited by practicing Muslims in the afternoon.

**_Hijab_**: is the Arabic term for barrier or dressing modestly. Often used to mean headscarf as well.

**_Keffiyeh_**: a traditional Muslim headdress for men often held in place by a rope circlet called **_egal_**.

**_Maghrib_**: the 4th of 5 daily prayers recited by practicing Muslims in the afternoon.

**_Thobe_**: ankle-length garment with long sleeves normally made of cotton and resembling a long robe. The name is often used interchangeably with **_dishdasha_**.

* * *

Getting out of the humvee that deposited him before General Mustafa Suqur Al-Shahrani's compound, Lt. Hunter was a recruitment poster for the U.S. Army. He was tall and rugged like the Marlboro Man before emphysema. He had the badass walk down to a science and he jumped out of the car a second before it came to a full stop. The narrow street cramped some of his style but he swaggered up to the gate looking nonetheless dangerous if for the wrong reasons. The driver jumped out next, a trim black woman who moved like a cat. The passenger side door opened last and the two soldiers stood in front of the grille straight faced, guarding the lieutenant's progress into the yard despite knowing him well.

Pvt. Nassiri approached the door and opened it from the inside, taking Nadim's job temporarily as the boy helped the driver buff the newly returned Benz. Privates Dumphy and King were talking beside the car and stopped as Hunter drew nearer.

"Sir," Dumphy said saluting. The humvee backing out of the alley drowned out the sound of his address.

"As you were soldier. Where's sergeant Silas?"

"We just got in a minute ago sir," Dumphy replied.

"I'll go see," King offered before Frank could.

-----------------------------------

A bird's eye view of the bed would have consisted of a tangle of arms and legs as Chris and Jamila slept in each other's embrace sharing a sheet she had hogged almost entirely. Together they took up little more than the space for one person and it was like this that Chris first opened his eyes with his left arm draped protectively over her waist and his hand in hers. He tried to remember how long they'd been asleep or the last time he'd slept so well in the past year but came up empty on both counts. Sunlight filtered into the room through the curtained glass in the doors making the furniture look like a photo in sepia.

He gathered strands of her hair and took in the sweet smell of gardenias. Jamila stirred one leg first and then the other, stretching them as she opened her eyes lazily. Her smile increased in wattage until she beamed. The moment would have been perfect but for the baggage waiting outside the door.

"My legs feel like Jell-O," she whispered, so close to him, her lips brushed his chin as she spoke. Chris admired the view from his vantage point as Jamila sat up in bed and wrapped the sheet around her shoulders like a cape. "Thank you," she said smiling again.

"What for?" He asked taking her cue and shaking out his crumpled underwear until he could tell which leg went where. Jamila sat next to him.

"For showing me what this feels like with a man who doesn't hate me because I make him feel inadequate," she said leaning her head on his shoulder. "Not having someone praying over my head was nice too," she added in a lighter tone that diffused the sudden gloom. She looked on raptly as Chris finished dressing, trying to remember every detail of his body; the moon shaped mole where his shoulder blades met, the curve of his jawline, the button sized vaccination scar on his left shoulder.

They stood still when the soulful cries of a muezzin shattered the silence. Silas recognized the call to prayer, so familiar to his ears on the tail end of a fifteen month tour of duty but it didn't make him pale to sickly whiteness like Jamila had.

"**_Asr_**. That's **_adhan_**, you have to go." She managed in a little, wavering voice that was almost lost in the amplifier feedback helping the muezzin be heard. Chris pushed the curtain aside to look at the deserted second floor beyond it. Jamila was halfway into a green linen **_abaya_** as he picked up the M4 from the chair where it had kept watch and adjusted the sling out of habit. He opened the door and walked out close to the wall. The red rubber flip-flops on his feet looked ridiculous.

At the foot of the stairs, Williams had been keeping watch, fidgeting with anything on his person that could be tightened, clasped or tugged at. When SSgt. Silas appeared, he had been psyching himself up to climb the steps and warn them of Mustafa's arrival.

"Shit sergeant why'd you have to take so damn long?"

-----------------------------------

"Peace be upon you," Nadim said standing in Lt. Hunter's path, fully intent on delivering the visitor's speech he had given the day before when the fire squad had arrived. Hunter sidestepped the boy like one would a dead rat.

"Peace be upon you," he repeated, intercepting the man a second time and again being ignored. Dumphy held him back by the collar of his shirt as the boy prepared to try a third time.

Mustafa emerged from the kitchen with a veiled maid in his wake. The woman balanced half a dozen clay basins on each shoulder. Hunter positioned himself halfway between Mustafa and the door. The maid scurried behind them as Mustafa stopped to make nice.

"General Al-Shahrani," he said giving the man his left hand to shake as he kept his right near the trigger. He was perfectly aware of the offense this represented. Mustafa shook the proffered hand without missing a beat, disliking a lot more, the fact that he had to look up to an insignificant lieutenant who wielded twice the power he had to work with on his best day.

"Lieutenant Hunter, what an honor to have you in my home. I received word you would be coming by today. Perhaps with good news? When will my bodyguards be cleared?"

"Maybe we should talk inside?" He said as the muezzin began his call to prayer from the minaret.

"If you would do me the kindness," Mustafa replied over the amplified cries of Allah's greatness, "of waiting a short while, I would be forever in your debt. It is time to pray **_maghrib _**and my family looks forward to this moment together all day. " Hunter gave no response but simply moved aside.

-----------------------------------

When Silas made it to the ground floor where Williams had been keeping watch and before the muezzin started on the second round of the **_adhan_**, Jamila was almost dressed for prayers. The overall look, reminiscent of a Catholic virgin's robes, did not quite match the lack of clothing or even underwear beneath. She checked the length of her **_abaya_**'s sleeves and disappeared inside the dark walk-in closet to come back pulling stretchy black arm covers from a box she threw on the unmade bed. The elasticized lace trim at the wrist held them in place but she raised her arms above her head to make sure no skin was visible from any angle. She tied her hair into a knot then pulled a creamy knit bonnet over the resulting bun until the border concealed the upper half of her forehead. Not being very organized had its upsides, Jamila noted, picking out a long, olive scarf from the back of a chair where she'd discarded it days earlier. She draped the scarf around her shoulders, pinned the shorter end under her chin and wrapped the remaining length twice about her head where a second pin secured the scarf under her ear.

Jamila checked the end product in the mirror and satisfied that at least the appearance of piety was there, ran down the stairs so fast she never noticed Yusef, the driver, squatting before a clay pot full of water performing ablutions a few feet from where the female servants where cleaning up themselves. Until she ran into the women's drawing room and saw Silas and Mustafa cross paths at the front door Jamila still thought she was only slightly late for **_asr_** not **_maghrib_**. She had slept through the mid afternoon prayers and noticed it only too late.

-----------------------------------

"Where's your uniform Pvt. Williams?" Lt. Hunter asked in a tone he had learned he could only use among the lower pay grades lest he wanted to be out-screamed right back.

"They didn't come back from the cleaner today sir," he said referring to his and Silas' attire. His answer gave pause to Hunter who spoke only after a clumsy silence.

"I should be so lucky to have your problems private, sergeant," Hunter announced as if changing his mind on how much further the matter was worth pursuing.

"They are back now," Williams added unsure of what the sudden rash of good judgment on the lieutenant's part could mean. The men stood around in a circle clearing their throats and saying nothing until Nadim interrupted the exchange.

"Excuse me captain," the boy said in a strong, clear voice. Hunter acknowledged his nose. "Sir, I am to lead you to the general's office where you can take refreshments and wait." Having been the unofficial liaison between Yusef and the security detail posted outside the house while Mustafa had been in Baghdad a month earlier for elections, Nadim had learned to read rank in commissioned and non-commissioned officers alike but his instinct about Hunter had been right. The man made no attempt to correct him as he followed the boy to the front entrance where he stood before the door and took a pair of rubber flip-flops from the cubbies on the wall.

"Sir, if you could please remove your outdoor shoes to come in as a sign of respect to the host. I will be fined from my wages if you don't," Nadim said adding a note of theatrical despair to his voice and putting the shoes on the floor for the lieutenant. Again ignoring the boy, Hunter kicked the shoes aside and would have shoved Nadim out of his way if the latter had not ducked in the nick of time. Lt. Hunter pushed the door open and turned around on the threshold to face Dumphy and Nassiri both of whom had taken a seat on the bench and had the sandals they'd worn earlier at their feet.

"Those are not part of your uniform soldier," he said sternly making eye contact only with Tariq. "Tough shit kid," he added at last fully acknowledging Nadim. He looked down at Silas' red flip-flops and snickered derisively. "Show me to the office," he ordered.

At the door, Nadim stood dumfounded, his chin quivering as the child in him absorbed the harsh treatment he wasn't used to. Even Mustafa had a soft spot for the boy's easy charm. Dumphy and Williams scurried into the house after the lieutenant followed by Silas and Tariq. King squatted before him and took a bill from his money clip.

"I'm sorry kid," he said handing him the crisp Jackson portrait. "I hope this helps with the fine." Nadim pocketed the money quickly and smiled content. The fine Mustafa charged him was the equivalent of twenty five American cents and the twenty dollar bill in his pocket covered the next fifty transgressions with change left for new video games.

"Thank you," he said glowing.

"Why don't you forget about his drink?" Pvt. King proposed. "Aren't you supposed to be praying anyway?"

Nadim nodded fully recovered and ran to the courtyard where he filled his bowl from the tap and began performing ablutions though the rest of the servants were already praying along to Yusef's lead. King met Hunter in the hall. The man was looking at the faithful servants with something between disgust and exasperation painted on his face.

"That's the office right there," King said pointing towards the room in question for the lieutenant's benefit. As he went into the guest room where the men who worked for a living had gathered, Hunter turned on a light on the desk and kicked the door closed before he sat down in one of the chairs facing the throne-sized leather monstrosity Mustafa used.

"What did you do all day?" Williams asked Nassiri as he tossed his clothes aside.

"Smoke, a warning, please," Pvt. Dumphy said as Williams took off his underpants facing the wall. SSgt. Silas had gone into the bathroom. The faucets were running full blast.

"Kiss my black ass Dim," Williams replied pulling on his boxers and his pants almost at the same time. He had a special talent for dressing quickly and this complemented his preference for attached or otherwise unavailable women very well.

"Played cards with some of the guards," King jumped in. "The place was full of Iraqi policemen. These were pretty well trained. No one even went near the building all damn day."

"How about you and Scream?" Dumphy asked taking off his helmet.

"I caught up on my sleep but uh, you should ask Sgt. Scream," Williams said pausing both to button up his uniform shirt and for suspense. "He was gone with Scheherazade for a looong ass time."

"Was it one of the maids?" Dumphy whispered.

"The wife Dimwit," Williams snickered. "Damn you really are dumb. Have you looked at those maids?" He shivered.

"Which one?" Nassiri asked.

"What's with the face?" Dumphy asked before Williams could answer.

"She's married. It just doesn't feel right," Tariq said as if he'd surprised himself by his own objection. The water stopped running in the bathroom and the conversation outside ceased. SSgt. Silas came out fully dressed in his crisp, clean uniform. The sharp, useless air the same clothes conveyed on Lt. Hunter was absent on him. As he walked out of the bathroom, face tuned to the 'don't fuck with me right now' channel, Dumphy and Williams welcomed him with congratulatory applause in a rare moment of agreement ruined by the dead silence with which their cheering was met.

-----------------------------------

Mustafa entered the drawing room like a lion stalking prey. At the end of the wife parade, with her hands clasped before her and her eyes fixed on a stray rug thread at her feet, Jamila's heart was pounding in her chest. She knew the look on Mustafa's eyes very well and beside her Fatima gasped almost loud enough to be heard. Not yet thirty, she was still young enough to remember that look herself. He greeted Raja with a kiss on her onion-thin forehead, a gesture that would have been tender if his eyes had not been focused on Jamila at the time. Raja was the good wife. She had produced Mustafa's only male heir (married) soon after their marriage almost forty years earlier and remained the darling as each of Zukia's five pregnancies produced one daughter after another (also married off) and Fatima's another three tiny stillborn girls.

Each woman received her greeting forcing contented smiles and as Mustafa put his lips to Fatima's forehead, Jamila dug her nails into each of her hands to keep them from shaking. At last he placed a hand on Jamila's shoulder and raised her face to his with the other. The smile he gave her had more in common with an aggressive grimace than any other expression. He traced the oval of Jamila's face with a fingertip and tightened his grip on her shoulder until she stifled a whimper. To her surprise the same rigid kiss he had deposited on Fatima's head descended on hers. He held her with both hands pulling her close to his chest until Jamila had folded her head into a forced hug. It took her a second to notice what Mustafa was trying to do and all her strength to stand motionless as he smelled with his nose close to her skin like a bloodhound on someone's trail.

Mustafa put his nose to the crook of Jamila's neck and hooked his index finger to the edge of her headscarf. He took a deep breath, a whiff really and pulled the scarf with a brusque gesture that stopped only when his elbow hit the side Fatima's head. The pins holding Jamila's scarf in place cut through the skin beneath them leaving inch-long scratches where they had been fastened.

"**_Hijab_** is for decent women," he seethed closing his hands around Jamila's neck, pushing her backwards onto a sofa. "I can smell him on you." Her hands closed around his as she tried to pry his fingers loose.

"_Min fadilak _Mustafa," she croaked managing only a syllable at a time.

"_Askut_," he ordered gripping harder until her eyes bulged with the strain of trying to draw a breath. Mustafa placed his right thumb on her trachea and dug his middle finger on the back of her neck. Jamila gasped for air and gagged almost at the same time. Mustafa gathered the seam of her **_abaya_** in his free hand and pulled it up over her knees as she strained to get away. He applied pressure on the soft spot between her collarbones until Jamila gave up and he could push the robe as far up as it would go. She fought him as he tried to force open her legs. With his free hand, Mustafa grabbed a handful of Jamila's hair and pulled toward him until he felt her relax. He retained his grip on the hair and shoved his right hand between her legs as Jamila emitted a frightened, muted jumble of whimpers and gasps for air. Mustafa looked at the wet fingertips of his right hand, rubbed them together and licked each finger like one would a delicacy. "Whore," he spit hoarsely as he slapped Jamila so hard her head bounced on the sofa cushion.

"Out," he yelled looking at the three women behind him, surprised to see them standing there with looks of shock in their faces. "Out," he yelled again, waving a bloody clump of Jamila's hair in his hand as he pointed to the door. The women scurried out like mice around the courtyard full of kneeling servants and one by one, in order of seniority, climbed the stairs.

* * *

And that was chapter five. I changed the layout of the house a bit to make the preceding more plausible and now I'm gonna go figure out how to start wrapping this up coz I'm running out of vacations faster than I thought.

Oh yes, and as I understand: **_min sadilak_** means 'please' and **_askut_** meant 'shut up.'


	6. Showdown

The following contains violence and some swearing so fetch your legal guardian they don't let you read that sort of thing. Now, for anyone up on their geography, although I'm pretty sure this Al-Shuyukh place exists, I might have changed it around quite a bit by placing it in northern Iraq. Lastly I am as acquainted with weapons as Jayne Mansfield was with quantum physics. I've tried to do the research but it's damn boring so if anything is impossible, implausible or just plain stupid, drop me a line.

Chris Gerolmo owns Sgt. Hotness and the Appleseed Gang but I own the words below so don't go turning this into your term paper or nothing k'?

**_Abaya_**: an over-garment worn by some Muslim women.

* * *

Alone in the drawing room, Mustafa looked from the handful of hair in his fist to Jamila slumped on the sofa gagging and coughing as she strained to breathe. The blood oozing from the scalped patch in her head began seeping into the upholstery. Mustafa looked at his hand again and recognition crept into his eyes. He discarded the hair with a shudder, careful to drop it in a sewing basket to spare the rug and reclaimed his cane from the floor. He used the long carved stick to poke her.

"Get up whore. You are soiling my house." Jamila stirred at the sound of his voice and tried to prop herself up on one hand. The cane fell on her arm with a thwack. "You heard me," he almost sang, pushing Jamila into an upright position with his cane. He took her face in both his hands.

"You still think he was worth it?" He asked in a harsh, menacing whisper. Jamila searched for his eyes, busy appraising the extent of the damage to a favorite toy and held his gaze with renewed strength.

"Yes," she replied bracing herself for the blow she knew was coming.

His right hand curled into a fist and struck in a fraction of a second, between her nose and lips and glanced off her face to sink into the couch. Raging again Mustafa pulled Jamila to her feet twisting both arms inwards until the need to scream and the pain of doing so made her begin to choke. He struck the back of her legs with the cane and watched her fall to her knees. Jamila ducked as he raised his arm to strike again and wailed when the cane came down on her forearms. She opened her eyes when the blows stopped and shivered at the sight of the cold black eyes looking down at her.

"I'm not done with you." Mustafa announced. He centered his tie on his collar and unhooked the cane from the crook of his arm. Leaning on the crutch and his bad leg, Mustafa kicked Jamila squarely in the belly and turned around on the left over momentum. Hunched over on the floor from the pain Jamila wiped the blood dripping from her nose with one hand and used the other to keep herself from falling, knowing she'd never be able to get up any other way.

-----------------------------------

Outside, Lt. Hunter was pacing the width of the courtyard having counted each of its tiles and looked at his watch more than he could bear in a single day. He'd lasted less than three minutes inside the office. It annoyed him to be missing the action one town over where some other platoon with some other, far luckier lieutenant combed the town for suspected insurgents. He had tuned out the muffled cries from the adjacent room to review his five year plan while he waited for Mustafa. His ears perked up like a dog's as the General reappeared from behind closed doors.

"General Al-Shahrani," he gestured lengthening his stride to reach the man sooner.

"Lt. Hunter," Mustafa acknowledged nodding politely. "Thank you for waiting. A domestic matter," he added shrugging as a Boy's Club smile bent his face. "Surely you understand?" He asked.

"Your bodyguards," he said ignoring the question and opening the office door for Mustafa "are on their way from Baghdad." Inside, neither man took a chair.

"Those _are_ great news."

"The army is willing to post troops outside your home and office until they get here, at your discretion," he recited, as if the sound of each word were source of physical pain.

"I felt very secure among my new staff Lieutenant; I see no reason to keep your boys around any longer when they could be useful to democracy at another location." Mustafa said approaching the door. "Sit. I must get you tea," he said managing to sound a bit more natural the second time his mouth opened.

In the span of a sentence Lt. Hunter had calculated how much time they'd need to join the action in Al-Shuyukh and in less than ten words his timeline had been turned on its head. One door closed behind Mustafa as another opened into the room. His mouth fell open.

Jamila's nose was still bleeding and the cuts on her chin had reopened during the struggle. Blood had begun to coagulate in her head, matting the hair around it into a stiff, sticky mess. The collar of her dress was stained brown from the blood dripping on the bright green fabric. Her neck above the livid bruises shaped like Mustafa's powerful hands was dotted with round purplish spots and random scratch marks where his nails had dug into her skin.

"Help me," she managed hoarsely. Hunter closed his mouth, biting his tongue in the process. The person crying next door was now undeniably human and that was _not_ on his five year plan. She looked at him like a hungry stray dog might if he were the kind of person to notice that sort of thing.

"Please," Jamila tried again. Hunter flinched; startled by the urgency in such a tiny word, and the way it had affected him. "I can pay you," she sobbed, giving him the excuse he needed to walk away. Jamila reached out to point at a framed picture of Mecca hanging over the office safe.

"My integrity is not for sale," he said standing straighter to take full advantage of his height. "I am a soldier in the United States Army and this is a domestic matter you should resolve amongst yourselves."

Jamila looked at the empty office through dazed eyes and knocked the picture in front of the safe with a swat of her hand. She punched an eight digit combination into the keypad and waited for the door to hiss open. She stared at the $50,000 dollars inside, divided into ten stacks worth $5,000 each. On a higher shelf, her passport and Mustafa's were crammed into a pocket protector too small for either document and beneath them the remaining passports for Fatima, Raja and Zukia. Together within such easy reach, they seemed to be mocking her. Jamila closed the safe door and held onto the nearest chair for support. She slipped between the armrests and gave in to the pain trying to sit as still as she could to avoid the sting of movement; unable to do little more than whimper on a throat too raw to speak above a whisper.

-----------------------------------

Silas was the first to look up when Hunter walked in and as such the first stand in acknowledgment. Tariq and Angel managed a halfway stand before the Lieutenant's gruff 'as you were' released them from the need to complete the gesture.

"Let's go. Third squad is clearing out Al-Shuyukh and they need help." Silas cleared his throat.

"What about the bodyguards?" He asked.

"Ahab the Arab turned down your services but don't worry, you'll get more room service in Qatar when you're up for R&R," Hunter said pointing to the covered food trays left over from lunch. "Let's go men."

The trip to the car was quick and unsupervised. SSgt. Silas looked around sensing the strangeness of such autonomy when they'd been shadowed almost every other time for the past twenty four hours but nothing seemed out of order or at least, he had no way to compare. Hunter was sitting shotgun before anyone else had reached the doorway and Silas looked one last time hoping to see Nadim. The boy had disappeared and the stool where he sat by the door was turned upside down. The light had gone quickly painting the sky in a sickly yellowing light that was dying fast. Tariq climbed on the driver's seat taking the keys from Dumphy who gave no objection preferring to sit out of Hunter's sight. A woman scurried out of the kitchen as Silas, King, Dumphy and Williams took their places in the back seats. She opened the door and peered inside the car giving free rein to her curiosity with no one looking over her shoulder to suggest she do otherwise. Dumphy and Williams, sitting closest to the open back of the humvee as the lookouts, waved goodbye as she closed the door. The greeting seemed to offend her and she dashed off closing the door only halfway.

-----------------------------------

Ahab the Arab had been sitting in the dining room waiting for the pitter patter of six pairs of adult feet to get away from his house. He'd had no plans to entertain any longer when the possibilities with Jamila were endless but had simply wanted to give the impatient Lieutenant an easy way out under the guise of fetching tea. He rushed back to the drawing room as the last booted foot stepped over the threshold and peered into his office through the open connecting door. He went inside delighted.

"What happened to prince charming my little slut? You mean he didn't care?" He mocked taking in the uncovered safe and the broken glass from the picture. "Did you hear them leave without you?" He roared closing a hand around her neck when she didn't answer. "Let's go see."

Mustafa pulled Jamila up by the hair and she followed unable to care anymore. He pushed her across the courtyard using his hands and cane interchangeably. Outside, Hafsa who was closing the gate, scampered back into the kitchen at the sight of the upcoming attractions. Jamila stumbled to a stop five feet from the gate where she focused on the Humvee's dirty brake lights and the outline of the people in the back. Mustafa pushed her hard between her shoulders and she howled a low, pitiful yelp that carried no further than the security bars she was holding to steady herself. The words were trapped in her mouth. Anything she could have said Mustafa would have had a hard time hearing let alone prince charming now over block away.

"Hey, look, they came out to say goodbye," Dumphy said glancing up at the house before the sheer idiocy of his declaration had time to sink in. Williams looked up at the outlined figures against the gate and Dumphy with him paying closer attention to what they could see in the fading light.

"I think that's her. The woman Sergeant, he just threw her against the fence," he cried out tensely. Silas peered over his shoulder pushing Frank aside and in front of him; King looked through the scope in his rifle.

"She's covered in blood Sergeant," King said.

"Stop," Silas shouted in Tariq's ear as the word 'blood' left King's mouth. "Turn around," he added as Nassiri stepped on the brakes. Each man jerked forward and Hunter's helmeted head took the worst hit when it slammed against the windshield producing an oddly hollow sound.

"Don't you dare turn around soldier," the latter boomed in Nassiri's right ear. "That is a domestic dispute," he spit out derisively, needing to believe his own speech more than anyone else. "If they need help they'll call the police."

"He's the motherfucking chief of police." Silas said having long ago managed the art of yelling through clenched teeth in a pitch like a pit bull's growl. The car fell into a silence as charged as the loudness before it and Tariq, not bold enough to disobey a direct order, shifted the Humvee into reverse. He stepped on the accelerator, backed into the alley and the hum in his throat became a scream. In the back, four pairs of hands held on to what they could in anticipation of kissing the fence. Behind it Mustafa whitened visibly when the roar of the Humvee's engine made it clear he had done a very stupid thing by going outside. He overpowered Jamila fighting to pry her fingers from the bars, and dragged her back with him by whatever he could grab; suddenly protective of his toy. The gate gave as the Humvee crashed into it the first time. The frame absorbed the bulk of the shock and six butts slammed into their seats hard enough to bounce back up as if on springs.

Mustafa backed into the house as fast as he could while still holding on to Jamila. For the first time since he'd married her, as Silas loomed closer, he grew thankful to have his wife to use as a shield.

"Let go of her," Silas ordered standing three feet in front of Mustafa, slipping his index finger into the trigger.

"You have no authority here Sergeant. This is a domestic matter," Mustafa said trying to control the fear in his voice as he held Jamila closer to him. She grimaced in pain as his arm around her throat pressed harder and Mustafa saw the menace slip from Silas' face when he looked at her. All day at work, he had pictured Jamila with the younger man, Williams, and had until a second earlier thought him to be the culprit.

"Let go of her you sadistic fuck," Silas repeated aiming.

"So it was you all along." Mustafa spoke into her hair not wanting to lose the built-in protection of an innocent body covering every inch of his. Unlike lesser cowards, he knew that the smallest vulnerability would be exploited. "I thought the little cunt would go for the younger one but I should've known she'd never put out for a _private_," he said backing into the living room. Silas matched him step for step and behind him, even Lt. Hunter stepped closer.

"You know how much I paid for this?" He asked patting her crotch, "twenty million Iraqi dinars. Do yourself a favor and think with your head Sergeant," Mustafa continued as he slipped his free hand into his suit and retrieved a snub-nosed .38 special that he pressed to the nape of Jamila's neck. He cocked the gun. "This woman will be tried for adultery in our courts. Do you want to be tried with her? You can't do anything Sergeant," Mustafa taunted taking a step back. "I am an elected official. Do you really think this," he added shaking Jamila "is worth your entire career?"

"Yes," Silas roared without hesitation firing instead with his service pistol a warning shot that singed Jamila's **_abaya_** and disappeared into the floorboards less than an inch away from Mustafa's left foot.

She pulled the arm around her neck up to her mouth when Mustafa faltered in the resulting chaos and bit the exposed wrist until her teeth broke the skin. He dropped the revolver and pushed Jamila, his only ace, off him startled by a move he'd never anticipated. Dumphy and King closed in. Jamila collapsed onto her hands and knees and Silas kicked the feet out from underneath Mustafa all in the span of a second, if that. He was on the floor blubbering despite his home field advantage with the barrel of Silas' M4 pointed at the center of his unibrow. Dumphy turned Mustafa on his side with one boot and secured a pair of Flex Cuffs on his wrists. Several covered heads were peeking in from the hallway at the spectacle inside the room. The floodlights in the front patio came on as they had the previous night shining bright light on the room through the window, upsetting the artificial calm. Jamila lunged for the abandoned revolver in the split moment the light worked as a distraction. She stood without looking away from Mustafa.

"Gun," Dumphy yelled as she closed her index finger around the trigger and used her left hand to steady her grip on the handle. "Gun," he repeated. Six pairs of eyes focused on the level .38 and the muzzles of six M4s rose to address the threat.

"Did he do this to you ma'am?" King asked in a soft, strong voice that was naturally composed on the worst of days but even calmer with the capability of fully automatic lethal fire on its side. "If you tell us this man hurt you, we can take him into custody." On the floor Mustafa laughed.

"You don't have the jurisdiction," the man said in a voice that sounded unduly arrogant for a man in his position. He repeated the statement in Arabic for the benefit of the curious staff. Jamila's chin quivered as she raised the barrel until Mustafa's face was centered beyond the front sights. A boot, Silas' or Dumphy's smacked Mustafa in the side of his head.

"You can't," she said shaking her head.

"He's wrong ma'am. What he did to you is a crime and we can arrest him right now."

"He'll come back."

"He won't if you put that gun down. He'll be in jail for hurting you but you need to put your gun down _now_ ma'am," King urged seeing the uncertainty in Jamila's green eyes.

"He always comes back,"

"No way ma'am."

"No," she said closing her eyes.

A dark, wet spot spread from Mustafa's zipper to most of the front of his pants as his bladder emptied, maybe seeing in Jamila a change no one else could have picked up on a relative stranger. She pulled the trigger. The explosion broke the last of the silence and ten female voices outside the door began wailing perhaps even _before_ the bullet that went in through Mustafa's right temple exited through the left. Jamila opened her eyes, and looked at neat entrance wound on the side of the flaccid head. The smell of gunpowder spread through the air. In five ten-thousands of a second the seventy year life had come to a screeching stop. With the remaining fraction Jamila let go of the revolver and touched the warm, wet spot between her waist and her right breast where blood so dark it looked almost black stained her clothes and dripped down her side. She was the last person in the living room to realize she'd been shot. The muzzle of Lt. Hunter's M9 was smoking like a bad western. Jamila stumbled on her own sluggish feet and lost her balance. Silas stepped over Mustafa, on him, and took her from Dumphy's arms into his own.

Lt. Hunter looked on dumbfounded and gagged as reality sunk in. He returned the handgun to the holster strapped to his thigh and threw up the semi-digested remnants of a cheese tortellini MRE, unable to rationalize his course of action on such short notice. Eight feet from him Silas ripped Jamila's soaked **_abaya_** starting at the bullet hole. He looked for an exit wound where he knew there'd be none and stopped on the mean bruise centered on her belly button. He recognized the pattern from personal experience. The darkest part of the radial bruise matched the squared toe of Mustafa's dress shoes.

"It hurts," she whimpered squirming on the floor. On his knees Silas scooped Jamila and cradled her shoulders with one arm. "Can I come with you?"

"Okay," Chris said rearranging her clothes to cover the hole he'd ripped in them, trying and failing to keep the hopelessness from his face. The bullet had shattered her liver.

"I'm scared," she said between quick shallow breaths. "It hurts so much."

"It's okay. You'll be okay. You're gonna be okay," he said wanting to believe his lie.

"Hold me," she sobbed. "I need you." Chris helped her to sit up and drew her closer to him. Jamila wrapped her left arm loosely around Silas' waist and sought his hand to clutch. "I don't know your name," a very small voice murmured in his neck.

"It's Chris. Christopher. Christopher Silas," he whispered. Chris wrapped his hand around Jamila's wrist to measure her pulse and held it until he couldn't feel the faint drumming anymore. Fifteen months of pent up stress and ugliness and grief spilled from him in guttural, wracking sobs he wasn't able to control. One by one, Dumphy, Williams, Nassiri and King turned around to give the man some privacy and instead faced Hunter who stood motionless staring at the vomit at his feet. The wailing in the courtyard subsided as each kneeling woman ventured glimpses of the imposing wall of armed men staring back at them. They were like statues for the nine endless minutes until the room was silent again. It was King who knelt next to Silas. He touched his shoulder.

"We have to go Sergeant," Avery said. SSgt. Silas let go of Jamila's lifeless body and laid her on her side carefully as if she weren't dead but only sleeping. The front of his uniform was covered in her blood from the body armor to the pants and the shirt. He looked on as Fatima, who'd ventured into the room slowly with both hands above her head, picked up Jamila and carried her away.

The men filed out of the house grimly, each taking the long way around Lt. Hunter who joined the rear without once looking up from the floor. Williams blocked the man's way when he tried to climb in the back of the Humvee. Without so much as a sigh, Hunter walked around the side of the car and settled his bulky, 74" frame into the passenger's side seat with room to spare. He looked out the dirty window as Dumphy radioed for orders next to him. It was a while before the engine turned over and they got going again.

* * *

And thus it all ends. I'll go download a recording of a standing ovation and bask in the glow of all that lovin'.


	7. Showdown II

This is an alternate, happier ending to the same story so it says exactly the same thing (disclaimers about my proficiency in Arabic, stuff with triggers and ownership included) as Chapter 6 up until the dividing bar that separates the new and the old content. Re-read or scroll with confidence, it's up to you! It's an era of deleted scenes and special features DVDs. What can I say? I got caught up in the razzle-dazzle of it all. Here's your picket fence Bianca!

**_Abaya_**: an over-garment worn by some Muslim women.

**_Keffiyeh_**: a traditional Muslim headdress for men often held in place by a rope circlet called **_egal_**.

* * *

Alone in the drawing room, Mustafa looked from the handful of hair in his fist to Jamila slumped on the sofa gagging and coughing as she strained to breathe. The blood oozing from the scalped patch in her head began seeping into the upholstery. Mustafa looked at his hand again and recognition crept into his eyes. He discarded the hair with a shudder, careful to drop it in a sewing basket to spare the rug and reclaimed his cane from the floor. He used the long carved stick to poke her.

"Get up whore. You are soiling my house." Jamila stirred at the sound of his voice and tried to prop herself up on one hand. The cane fell on her arm with a thwack. "You heard me," he almost sang, pushing Jamila into an upright position with his cane. He took her face in both his hands.

"You still think he was worth it?" He asked in a harsh, menacing whisper. Jamila searched for his eyes, busy appraising the extent of the damage to a favorite toy and held his gaze with renewed strength.

"Yes," she replied bracing herself for the blow she knew was coming.

His right hand curled into a fist and struck in a fraction of a second, between her nose and lips and glanced off her face to sink into the couch. Raging again Mustafa pulled Jamila to her feet twisting both arms inwards until the need to scream and the pain of doing so made her begin to choke. He struck the back of her legs with the cane and watched her fall to her knees. Jamila ducked as he raised his arm to strike again and wailed when the cane came down on her forearms. She opened her eyes when the blows stopped and shivered at the sight of the cold black eyes looking down at her.

"I'm not done with you." Mustafa announced. He centered his tie on his collar and unhooked the cane from the crook of his arm. Leaning on the crutch and his bad leg, Mustafa kicked Jamila squarely in the belly and turned around on the left over momentum. Hunched over on the floor from the pain Jamila wiped the blood dripping from her nose with one hand and used the other to keep herself from falling, knowing she'd never be able to get up any other way.

-----------------------------------

Outside, Lt. Hunter was pacing the width of the courtyard having counted each of its tiles and looked at his watch more than he could bear in a single day. He'd lasted less than three minutes inside the office. It annoyed him to be missing the action one town over where some other platoon with some other, far luckier lieutenant combed the town for suspected insurgents. He had tuned out the muffled cries from the adjacent room to review his five year plan while he waited for Mustafa. His ears perked up like a dog's as the General reappeared from behind closed doors.

"General Al-Shahrani," he gestured lengthening his stride to reach the man sooner.

"Lt. Hunter," Mustafa acknowledged nodding politely. "Thank you for waiting. A domestic matter," he added shrugging as a Boy's Club smile bent his face. "Surely you understand?" He asked.

"Your bodyguards," he said ignoring the question and opening the office door for Mustafa "are on their way from Baghdad." Inside, neither man took a chair.

"Those _are_ great news."

"The army is willing to post troops outside your home and office until they get here, at your discretion," he recited, as if the sound of each word were source of physical pain.

"I felt very secure among my new staff Lieutenant; I see no reason to keep your boys around any longer when they could be useful to democracy at another location." Mustafa said approaching the door. "Sit. I must get you tea," he said managing to sound a bit more natural the second time his mouth opened.

In the span of a sentence Lt. Hunter had calculated how much time they'd need to join the action in Al-Shuyukh and in less than ten words his timeline had been turned on its head. One door closed behind Mustafa as another opened into the room. His mouth fell open.

Jamila's nose was still bleeding and the cuts on her chin had reopened during the struggle. Blood had begun to coagulate in her head, matting the hair around it into a stiff, sticky mess. The collar of her dress was stained brown from the blood dripping on the bright green fabric. Her neck above the livid bruises shaped like Mustafa's powerful hands was dotted with round purplish spots and random scratch marks where his nails had dug into her skin.

"Help me," she managed hoarsely. Hunter closed his mouth, biting his tongue in the process. The person crying next door was now undeniably human and that was _not_ on his five year plan. She looked at him like a hungry stray dog might if he were the kind of person to notice that sort of thing.

"Please," Jamila tried again. Hunter flinched; startled by the urgency in such a tiny word, and the way it had affected him. "I can pay you," she sobbed, giving him the excuse he needed to walk away. Jamila reached out to point at a framed picture of Mecca hanging over the office safe.

"My integrity is not for sale," he said standing straighter to take full advantage of his height. "I am a soldier in the United States Army and this is a domestic matter you should resolve amongst yourselves."

Jamila looked at the empty office through dazed eyes and knocked the picture in front of the safe with a swat of her hand. She punched an eight digit combination into the keypad and waited for the door to hiss open. She stared at the $50,000 dollars inside, divided into ten stacks worth $5,000 each. On a higher shelf, her passport and Mustafa's were crammed into a pocket protector too small for either document and beneath them the remaining passports for Fatima, Raja and Zukia. Together within such easy reach, they seemed to be mocking her. Jamila closed the safe door and held onto the nearest chair for support. She slipped between the armrests and gave in to the pain trying to sit as still as she could to avoid the sting of movement; unable to do little more than whimper on a throat too raw to speak above a whisper.

-----------------------------------

Silas was the first to look up when Hunter walked in and as such the first stand in acknowledgment. Tariq and Angel managed a halfway stand before the Lieutenant's gruff 'as you were' released them from the need to complete the gesture.

"Let's go. Third squad is clearing out Al-Shuyukh and they need help." Silas cleared his throat.

"What about the bodyguards?" He asked.

"Ahab the Arab turned down your services but don't worry, you'll get more room service in Qatar when you're up for R&R," Hunter said pointing to the covered food trays left over from lunch. "Let's go men."

The trip to the car was quick and unsupervised. SSgt. Silas looked around sensing the strangeness of such autonomy when they'd been shadowed almost every other time for the past twenty four hours but nothing seemed out of order or at least, he had no way to compare. Hunter was sitting shotgun before anyone else had reached the doorway and Silas looked one last time hoping to see Nadim. The boy had disappeared and the stool where he sat by the door was turned upside down. The light had gone quickly painting the sky in a sickly yellowing light that was dying fast. Tariq climbed on the driver's seat taking the keys from Dumphy who gave no objection preferring to sit out of Hunter's sight. A woman scurried out of the kitchen as Silas, King, Dumphy and Williams took their places in the back seats. She opened the door and peered inside the car giving free rein to her curiosity with no one looking over her shoulder to suggest she do otherwise. Dumphy and Williams, sitting closest to the open back of the humvee as the lookouts, waved goodbye as she closed the door. The greeting seemed to offend her and she dashed off closing the door only halfway.

-----------------------------------

Ahab the Arab had been sitting in the dining room waiting for the pitter patter of six pairs of adult feet to get away from his house. He'd had no plans to entertain any longer when the possibilities with Jamila were endless but had simply wanted to give the impatient Lieutenant an easy way out under the guise of fetching tea. He rushed back to the drawing room as the last booted foot stepped over the threshold and peered into his office through the open connecting door. He went inside delighted.

"What happened to prince charming my little slut? You mean he didn't care?" He mocked taking in the uncovered safe and the broken glass from the picture. "Did you hear them leave without you?" He roared closing a hand around her neck when she didn't answer. "Let's go see."

Mustafa pulled Jamila up by the hair and she followed unable to care anymore. He pushed her across the courtyard using his hands and cane interchangeably. Outside, Hafsa who was closing the gate, scampered back into the kitchen at the sight of the upcoming attractions. Jamila stumbled to a stop five feet from the gate where she focused on the Humvee's dirty brake lights and the outline of the people in the back. Mustafa pushed her hard between her shoulders and she howled a low, pitiful yelp that carried no further than the security bars she was holding to steady herself. The words were trapped in her mouth. Anything she could have said Mustafa would have had a hard time hearing let alone prince charming now over block away.

"Hey, look, they came out to say goodbye," Dumphy said glancing up at the house before the sheer idiocy of his declaration had time to sink in. Williams looked up at the outlined figures against the gate and Dumphy with him paying closer attention to what they could see in the fading light.

"I think that's her. The woman Sergeant, he just threw her against the fence," he cried out tensely. Silas peered over his shoulder pushing Frank aside and in front of him; King looked through the scope in his rifle.

"She's covered in blood Sergeant," King said.

"Stop," Silas shouted in Tariq's ear as the word 'blood' left King's mouth. "Turn around," he added as Nassiri stepped on the brakes. Each man jerked forward and Hunter's helmeted head took the worst hit when it slammed against the windshield producing an oddly hollow sound.

"Don't you dare turn around soldier," the latter boomed in Nassiri's right ear. "That is a domestic dispute," he spit out derisively, needing to believe his own speech more than anyone else. "If they need help they'll call the police."

"He's the motherfucking chief of police." Silas said having long ago managed the art of yelling through clenched teeth in a pitch like a pit bull's growl. The car fell into a silence as charged as the loudness before it and Tariq, not bold enough to disobey a direct order, shifted the Humvee into reverse. He stepped on the accelerator, backed into the alley and the hum in his throat became a scream. In the back, four pairs of hands held on to what they could in anticipation of kissing the fence. Behind it Mustafa whitened visibly when the roar of the Humvee's engine made it clear he had done a very stupid thing by going outside. He overpowered Jamila fighting to pry her fingers from the bars, and dragged her back with him by whatever he could grab; suddenly protective of his toy. The gate gave as the Humvee crashed into it the first time. The frame absorbed the bulk of the shock and six butts slammed into their seats hard enough to bounce back up as if on springs.

Mustafa backed into the house as fast as he could while still holding on to Jamila. For the first time since he'd married her, as Silas loomed closer, he grew thankful to have his wife to use as a shield.

"Let go of her," Silas ordered standing three feet in front of Mustafa, slipping his index finger into the trigger.

"You have no authority here Sergeant. This is a domestic matter," Mustafa said trying to control the fear in his voice as he held Jamila closer to him. She grimaced in pain as his arm around her throat pressed harder and Mustafa saw the menace slip from Silas' face when he looked at her. All day at work, he had pictured Jamila with the younger man, Williams, and had until a second earlier thought him to be the culprit.

"Let go of her you sadistic fuck," Silas repeated aiming.

"So it was you all along." Mustafa spoke into her hair not wanting to lose the built-in protection of an innocent body covering every inch of his. Unlike lesser cowards, he knew that the smallest vulnerability would be exploited. "I thought the little cunt would go for the younger one but I should've known she'd never put out for a _private_," he said backing into the living room. Silas matched him step for step and behind him, even Lt. Hunter stepped closer.

"You know how much I paid for this?" He asked patting her crotch, "twenty million Iraqi dinars. Do yourself a favor and think with your head Sergeant," Mustafa continued as he slipped his free hand into his suit and retrieved a snub-nosed .38 special that he pressed to the nape of Jamila's neck. He cocked the gun. "This woman will be tried for adultery in our courts. Do you want to be tried with her? You can't do anything Sergeant," Mustafa taunted taking a step back. "I am an elected official. Do you really think this," he added shaking Jamila "is worth your entire career?"

"Yes," Silas roared without hesitation firing instead with his service pistol a warning shot that singed Jamila's **_abaya_** and disappeared into the floorboards less than an inch away from Mustafa's left foot.

She pulled the arm around her neck up to her mouth when Mustafa faltered in the resulting chaos and bit the exposed wrist until her teeth broke the skin. He dropped the revolver and pushed Jamila, his only ace, off him startled by a move he'd never anticipated. Dumphy and King closed in. Jamila collapsed onto her hands and knees and Silas kicked the feet out from underneath Mustafa all in the span of a second, if that. He was on the floor blubbering despite his home field advantage with the barrel of Silas' M4 pointed at the center of his unibrow. Dumphy turned Mustafa on his side with one boot and secured a pair of Flex Cuffs on his wrists. Several covered heads were peeking in from the hallway at the spectacle inside the room. The floodlights in the front patio came on as they had the previous night shining bright light on the room through the window, upsetting the artificial calm. Jamila lunged for the abandoned revolver in the split moment the light worked as a distraction. She stood without looking away from Mustafa.

"Gun," Dumphy yelled as she closed her index finger around the trigger and used her left hand to steady her grip on the handle. "Gun," he repeated. Six pairs of eyes focused on the level .38 and the muzzles of six M4s rose to address the threat.

"Did he do this to you ma'am?" King asked in a soft, strong voice that was naturally composed on the worst of days but even calmer with the capability of fully automatic lethal fire on its side. "If you tell us this man hurt you, we can take him into custody." On the floor Mustafa laughed.

"You don't have the jurisdiction," he said in a voice that sounded unduly arrogant for a man in his position. He repeated the statement in Arabic for the benefit of the curious staff. Jamila's chin quivered as she pulled back the hammer with her left thumb a second time. A boot, Silas' or Dumphy's smacked Mustafa in the side of his head. He went limp.

"You can't," she said shaking her head.

"He's wrong ma'am. What he did to you is a crime and we can arrest him right now."

"He'll come back."

"He won't if you put that gun down. He'll be in jail for hurting you but you need to put your gun down _now_ ma'am," King urged seeing the uncertainty in Jamila's green eyes.

"He always comes back,"

"No way ma'am."

**

* * *

_Alternate Ending __Alternate Ending Alternate EndingAlternate Ending Alternate Ending Alternate Ending_ ****

* * *

**

"Do you promise?" She asked childishly.

"Yes ma'am."

Shaking, Jamila unclasped her hands from around the grip, lowered the barrel towards the floor and dropped the cocked, one pound revolver with a clunk making the six men around her cringe. It didn't go off. King reached for the loaded weapon. He put his thumb between the hammer and the frame and pressed the trigger to release the hammer which he eased forward. He exhaled relieved and beside him, no doubt feeling equally relaxed, Mustafa wet his pants. King pressed the thumbpiece to swing the cylinder open. Pointing the barrel at the ceiling, he pushed the extractor rod through and counted the five live rounds inside. He pocketed them separately from the unloaded gun.

"Are you okay?" Chris asked looking at Jamila, unsure of what to with hands that just wanted to touch her, to make sure she wouldn't fall to pieces, to make sure she was truly really okay.

"Can I come with you?" She asked in return. Her hands were frozen at her sides and she focused on Silas' chin as if afraid of what he might say. Stunned more by a lack of options than reluctance to answer, he gave Lt. Hunter the opening he needed to jump in and regain control of the situation.

"Absolutely not. Sergeant I don't know what the hell you told this woman but I guarantee you this is going on your performance report and as for you missy, the United States Army is not your travel agent."

"_Laitohom ragado._" Jamila said as loud as she could manage, glaring at Hunter through narrowed eyes.

"Translate Nassiri. I _still_ don't speak mongoloid," Hunter barked.

"Um she said she wishes your parents slept that night, Sir," Tariq said biting his lower lip to keep a straight face.

"What?"

"I think she means the night you were conceived, Sir," Nassiri added forcing himself to cough in an effort to disguise his laughter. Silas had to count to thirty before he could trust himself to open his mouth. Counting to ten had ceased being effective the first week under Hunter's command.

"I think it's clear she fears for her safety if she stays here sir."

"You should count yourself lucky you are not under arrest right now for insubordination, adultery and conduct unbecoming Sergeant. You have commandeered government property for your personal use and assaulted an elected official why I have a mind to…"

"_You_ have a mind Sir?" He interrupted seething, counting be damned. Hunter's head reddened visibly lacking only foam at the mouth and smoke at the ears. Jamila looked at the escalating situation and tried to scream over the noise to be heard. Again she could manage only a raspy 'hey' that got lost in the racket. She walked around Mustafa who was following the exchange above him with interest and kicked the wet, pleated front of his trousers like one would a football. His high pitched wail succeeded in defusing the argument between Silas and Hunter. Mustafa squirmed like an obese worm taking shallow breaths through clenched teeth.

"You _promised_," Jamila said seeking King's eyes. A stuttering Avery was unable to respond fast enough to keep Hunter's mouth shut.

"He did no such thing."

"You promised he wouldn't be able to hurt me."

"And he is already under arrest," the Lieutenant said answering for Pvt. King a second time and pointing at the pathetic writhing figure on the floor for emphasis.

"He's the Chief of Police. He won't even have to post bail." Jamila pointed out.

"A most unfortunate turn of events but one beyond my control ma'am," Hunter countered almost civilly as the lawyer in him kicked in. Jamila opened her mouth to respond to Hunter across the room but was startled speechless by Silas who slipped one plastic Flex Cuff around her wrist and brought her free hand behind her to secure them there.

"Jamila Al-Shahrani you are under arrest for the assault of Brigadier General Mustafa Suqur Al-Shahrani." Silas struggled with the Flex Cuffs. "Make a fist for yes," he whispered into her hair getting as close to her ear as he dared go. "Do you have a passport?" He asked still fussing with the cuffs. She closed her right hand. "Get a maid to bring it to you. That ring of yours too and any cash you may have." Jamila closed her hand again. "Goddamnit private these fucking cuffs are defective. Secure the prisoner for transport," he added loudly for the benefit of the room. Dumphy took over for Silas and nearly smiled as he looked at the perfectly good, unclasped cuff he'd left around only one wrist. He took a fresh pair from his pocket and tied them loosely.

"Sergeant what are you doing?"

"I'm preparing the prisoners for transport Sir." He answered stating the obvious, knowing how much this annoyed Hunter.

"What transport?" Hunter snapped.

"The General and his wife, Sir," Silas answered enjoying himself. "We can hardly leave his prosecution up to him and Al-Hadith is not equipped to handle female prisoners; looks like they are hitching a ride to Mosül with us Sir." Lt. Hunter processed this information.

"Pfc. Nassiri, search the General for identification," SSgt. Silas ordered turning his back on Hunter. "Mrs. Al-Shahrani, do you have your identification papers on your person?"

"No."

"Please have someone fetch them for you." Jamila nodded to signal understanding. She walked across the room, past Hunter, and stood before the doors that led to the courtyard looking at the maid lined up along the hallway.

"Soraya, find Nadim please." The woman Jamila spoke to looked to her right and then her left probably wondering why she'd been singled out for duty among the seven maids. She turned around like a toy soldier and began calling the boy like a herald. Nadim darted out of the dining room and hugged Jamila's legs. She gritted her teeth as he pressed her sore stomach. His eyes were red and his face wet with tears. She knelt down in front of him.

"Look at me," she said with authority though each word felt like she was swallowing nails. "I'm okay. _Nolite te bastardes carborundorum _remember?" Nadim smiled.

"_Nolite te bastardes carborundorum_," he echoed.

"I need you to get my passport and my ring from upstairs. Some of the money too. You know the combinations right?" She whispered in his ear. Nadim took off before Jamila stood up. She watched as Mustafa was escorted out by Williams and Dumphy with Hunter behind them watching like a hawk. King and Nassiri stood behind her as Silas walked outside to the courtyard where he followed Nadim's trajectory from the office to her room in the second floor and back down the stairs in record time. The boy caught his breath at the foot of the stairs and took calm measured steps to stand before Jamila.

"I'll hold on to her identification papers," Chris said tapping Nadim's shoulder. The boy turned around and looked him up and down. He furnished the identification card as asked, turned his attention back to Jamila and hugged her legs again, this time slipping the money and the passports into one of her side pockets and the ring in the other with such subtleness and expertise, only Silas who was closest noticed the exchange.

"Listen to your mother," she said smiling through her tears, knowing it improbable she'd ever see Nadim again.

"_Ana behibek,_" Nadim sobbed.

"I love you too," she said tussling his hair. Nadim let go of Jamila and fell back in line with the maids next to his mother. It was Fatima's turn.

"For later," the woman whispered wrapping a clean headscarf around Jamila's shoulders then hugged her lightly because they were almost best friends and she still remembered the days when Mustafa took out his frustrations on her.

"_Assalamu'alaikum_," Fatima said kissing Jamila's forehead.

"_Wa alaikum assalam_," Jamila smiled. Silas cleared his throat to get the women's attention.

"We need to get going," he said.

Jamila followed him still unable to shake disbelief from her head and at the same time basking in the relief of knowing Mustafa was out of her way. King and Nassiri followed her, each man as lost in their own thoughts as self-preservation allowed. Mustafa was sitting on the floor of the Humvee's cab with Williams busy tying a red **_Keffiyeh_** around his eyes. Lt. Hunter was sulking in his favorite seat next to Dumphy at the wheel. Both men turned around for a better view when they heard the approaching remnants of the fire team. King climbed in first and Nassiri second leaving SSgt. Silas behind Jamila. He cut her handcuffs with his knife and climbed into the car himself. He held out a hand for her, blocking Hunter's view of her lack of restraints. Jamila sat next to Silas and looked at Tariq in front of her. The engine turned over and they jerked forward as the car began moving. Mustafa fell onto his back and turned to his side as if divorced from his dignity.

"What did you say to kid back there ma'am? It sounded like Latin." Tariq asked as the Humvee blended into the light traffic heading home before curfew.

"Don't let the bastards grind you down," Jamila answered tying her headscarf to secure her hair in place.

"Technically, it's only half Latin," Dumphy said from the front seat. "It was General Stilwell's motto in WWII."

"Shut up Dim," Williams cut in. SSgt. Silas couldn't help laughing at the reassuring familiarity of the moment. Beside him Jamila slipped a hand into her pocket and the huge diamond ring into her index finger. She pushed the diamond free from its setting with her thumb glad all the weeks she'd spent weakening the jeweler's work had not been in vain. She threw the naked platinum band out the back of the truck, watched it get lost in the darkness and smiled mysteriously to herself.

* * *

'_Assalamu'alaikum_' means 'peace be upon you.' '_Wa alaikum assalam_' means 'and on you be peace.'

Yours respectfully: The Author.


End file.
